


Be Careful What You Wish For...

by WendyCR72



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: F/M, Law & Order: Criminal Intent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyCR72/pseuds/WendyCR72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really *is* lonely at the top. Alex's thoughts post "Loyalty". And yes, Bobby also makes an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello. Well...I was bored and so here I am, trying my hand at this. This is just another take on events which transpired during Loyalty and Alex's thoughts on the matter. I do plan on writing one more chapter with Alex visiting Bobby, probably no more than that, however, since I'm just dipping my toe in! So I will be brave! Love or hate this, your call! Just please be kind is all I ask. Read on!_

It was over.

That was all that kept running through Alexandra Eames' brain as she watched her partner - no, her ex-partner and other numerous labels best kept from being too-closely analyzed - walk out of One Police Plaza for the last time. Gone by her directive. Her first job as captain of the Major Case Squad.

Alex thought of the weight put on her, the first assignment given, to rid NYPD of its most cumbersome "liability", or so Moran would voice it, and while she resented the Catch-22, while the very thought of being the one to deliver another blow to Bobby Goren's life was something she fought against, she also knew in the end that it was going to be her or someone who didn't give a damn for Bobby Goren, someone who wouldn't weigh his outrageous methods and faults against his damned good clearance rate. _Their_ clearance rate and successes, all of which cast a golden glow on the NYPD and made it look good while all the while rolling its collective eye and radiating disapproval at the eccentric, flawed, brilliant detective that served them all their glories on a silver platter to present to the mayor, no doubt in a hail of back slapping and tuxedo-ed parties by the higher-ups.

The thought left an acidic taste in Alex's mouth. As a woman in the testosterone-laden world of the NYPD, she had often fought tooth and nail to show the good ol' boys that she was a chip off of Johnny Eames' block (all while hoping her father's faux pas with city double dipping was but a footnote in his otherwise illustrious career and soon forgotten), that she was a capable, smart, and driven detective who could go toe to toe with the big boys.

_Well, here you are!, her inner voice mocked. High atop the lofty perch. A leader. How does it feel? Was it worth it?_

Her head was vaguely starting to ache. No doubt a consequence of trying - and basically failing - not to cry as she dealt Bobby the sucker punch. Her eyes still felt hot and moist. And her cheek. Her cheek still tingled where Bobby, in a rare display of overt feeling, had kissed her before his departure. And the hug...

Alex still couldn't understand how Bobby didn't hate her for this. If the tables were turned (and thinking of Bobby in a position of power made Alex give a rueful semi-bitter laugh. He'd hate the responsibility and never sought out any glory!), Alex wondered if she would handle the situation with half the grace Bobby did. She wasn't sure.

She looked around the very building she had spent nine years - nine years of theories, scrapes with Carver, nine years of Bobby and his binder and tidbits of the most obscure pearls of wisdom all designed to disarm and catch the perps, nine years of Bobby going from cocky, manic, man-child in this three-piece suits and searing wit to watching as he helplessly fell down his own personal rabbit hole of despair, anger, and self-loathing following the death of his mentally-ill mother and then losing Frank a mere year later. Alex bit her lip as she guiltily thought that, family or not, Bobby was well rid of both. His mother no doubt holding his very existence against him even as she was the one who slept with a monster named Mark Ford Brady and bore his son. She had a son who only wanted her love, her affection, yet because of a quirk of corrupted genetics (in Frances Goren's warped view), she chose Frank.

Frank. Frank Goren the big brother turned drug-addict user. Of course, Alex was only privy to bits from the outside. She was always left out of the loop until circumstances would force them to be lain at her door in the guise of the cases so tenuously connected to pieces of Bobby's life: The discovery of Brady, Frank being murdered. Then and only then was she let in, allowed to truly grasp the complexity and the loneliness that made up one Detective Robert Goren. She understood it, yet it stung.

_Well, you stung back tonight..._ her psyche mocked. _Was it about subconsciously wanting to hurt him back for the times Bobby could be so careless? Did she want to hurt him?_

No.

She was just being the good soldier, taking orders and doing what needed doing. Or so she rationalized. But she had miscalculated. She thought making captain would be the sum of her hard work and personal sacrifice and a reward for a job well done.

Instead, she was alone. Not just alone. _Lonely_.

Even in all of the drama, all of the desk tossing and snubs to authority and all of the politics, she was never lonely with Bobby around. She was energized. She felt invincible.

That feeling evaporated the minute Bobby walked out. And she was left with her own self-recrimination and anger topped with a sprinkle of despair. If this is what it meant to be queen, so to speak, she wanted no part of it. She and Bobby were always different in style, but one of the important things that bound them together was disdain for artifice, for the political games played as everyone else worked their asses off. She'd never really thought about how that would affect her if and when she reached the top.

But now she knew. She wasn't cut out to pucker up and kiss ass. She wasn't meant to be here anymore. Not without her partner. Not without Bobby.

She was meant to be a cop. Not a political shill. Alex cast a weary glance down at the shield gripped in her hand, a symbol of power, of hard work and sweat and frustration and triumph, as it gleamed from the harsh lights overhead. She knew what she had to do now.

And then...then she knew who she had to see next. And she both welcomed and feared it. Raising her chin, Alex squeezed that shield, feeling it warm from her heat, her palm vaguely sweaty, and surrendered it freely. No longer encumbered by rules, regulations, and appearance.

In due course, one weight was off. Now came the hard part: Facing a certain ex-partner, friend (and so many other descriptors) once she dropped her bomb.

And, like Bobby Goren not long before, Alex Eames walked out of One Police Plaza for the last time as the walls containing myriad memories were left in her wake.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for summary...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hi, did I say I was writing only two chapters? Well, blame Bobby. He demanded to have his point of view about things before Alex showed up to visit, so I obliged. Again, love or hate it, just please be kind!_

Bobby stood near his kitchen sink, basically not seeing anything. He had actually considered stopping at the nearest bar and swimming in a sea of Glenlivet but then practicality took hold: He no longer had a job and needed to save what little money he'd managed to amass. Add to that that he wasn't a social person by nature to begin with, and he decided that drinking alone at home was just as acceptable. And more convenient. He could pass out in his favorite chair with some stale reruns to fill the silence. He stared at the bottle of Glenlivet sitting on the counter near his sink that he had taken from a cupboard upon returning home. Funny how the silence never bothered him before. All the way home, all he saw was Alex's pale face and the obvious anguish filling her as the chickenshit bastards that made up the NYPD's brass sent her to cushion the blow, to do their dirty work and score the victory they had been trying years for: To be rid of him.

Sighing, Bobby rubbed a hand over his face, already feeling a day's growth of whiskers. He should shave. But why bother? He had no one to impress, nowhere to go. Reaching out for the bottle, he grabbed it and went to find a glass to slosh some into and then changed his mind. He really must be getting old. But his heart wasn't into drinking away his melancholy. He needed a clear head. He needed to think. He put the bottle back into the cupboard as he shuffled into his living room and lay on the couch, just staring at his ceiling. As always, his thoughts returned to today. To Eames and how he'd miss her. How torn up she was.

Of course, that thought of Alex's grief was juxtaposed with the reality that Alex would soon be a part of that hierarchy now. But he didn't fault her for that. He meant every platitude he had given to her in that office: Eames was tough and smart. She had put up with his ass for nine years, so it was only fair that she reap the rewards for managing to balance keeping him in line and just basically being one hell of a detective. Bobby smiled as he thought of petite, snarky Eames. When he had been assigned Eames as his partner and had heard of her family connections, Bobby had mistakenly thought she was there on daddy's coattails, but he was soon disabused of that notion. If anything, Alex Eames was a dynamo in a tiny package and was _no one's_ charity project. It was exhilarating trying to keep up with _her_. He recalled her disdainful "I didn't take this job to be noticed", she had told him when Deakins was trying to get recruits for the drug task force (in the midst of the Henry Talbot case; Bobby smiled as he remembered Eames telling Talbot, after he tried hitting on her, that she needed to wash off the slime! and left the twisted bastard in her dust). But Eames was hard to miss, and Bobby knew even then that their time was finite, that she would leave him in the dust. The thought should hurt. It _did_ hurt, if he were honest. But as dependent as he was on Eames - and not just as a partner and friend but as a sort of conduit to the rest of the NYPD - he knew this was how it was meant to be and he was only holding her back from all she could be without his neediness and his issues bleeding over into her life and weighing her down.

Eames had saved him for years and had kept him from drowning in his own deficiencies (or so Bobby saw it). Now, though, now he had to let her go and try to save himself. She deserved _at least_ that.

Besides, Bobby was an expert at survival. He had to be. As a kid, he could remember nights hidden in a closet for hours as his mother would be in the thrall of her disease. His mother, like so many afflicted with mental illness, would often not take her medication, believing herself well. And once off, then would come the voices, and then, worse. His mother believed Bobby was sent from hell to kill her and he would run and hide and listen to her screams as she would chase him with a butcher knife, determined to slay the demon. Often, it wouldn't stop until Frank - always Frank - would be brave enough to placate her and, when Frances wasn't looking, offer his mother a drink spiked with her medication or a sedative - to calm her nerves. Peace would return with his mother medicated, only to cycle around and around again. His mother would extoll the virtues of religion while Bobby would often wonder what kind of God would allow him to suffer like this. To have no one but his brother, a brother who, more and more, would escape as they grew older. Off with girls, off at the movies, and then, off to numb his own demons with drugs.

And his father...or the man who supposedly raised him? He would first find his solace in a merry-go-round of gambling, booze, and women, only to finally tire of his wife and her ceaseless paranoia once and for all and, once Bobby turned 13, left Frances altogether and he was left to sink or swim on his own. Bobby would later bury himself in books, the library his personal safety zone. A few times, he had been tempted to follow in Frank's footsteps and self-medicate, but a steel thread inside of him, something Frank seemed to be without, kept Bobby going. That thread got him through high school and ultimately helped him stay on course and got him into the military and on the road to stability. To success. To some self-esteem. He really could have gone either way, as Jo Gage had told him. But he had persevered and worked his ass off and made a life for himself, a lonely one, but quiet loneliness was welcome after years of chaos and threats of demons.

Still, it all made a sick sort of sense once Mark Ford Brady made his presence known. Bobby realized he _was_ basically descended from hell and it had started a long downward spiral. If he were honest, Bobby was shocked that he didn't go home and eat his gun between losing his mother and finding out that his father was a serial killer. He probably would have if Eames hadn't appointed herself de facto guardian, tenacious bulldog, and Bobby's own personal safe harbor slash counselor. Eames was the reason he kept going, kept on, kept a shred of hope left that he could function. It always came down to Eames.

Briefly, he wondered if they would really stay in touch. It was kind of like high school, friends promising always to be there, but then life, the everyday would take hold, and those promises did a slow steady fade. The thought of Eames no longer being around made Bobby shiver just a little. And he knew it had little to do with the chilly November breeze that whistled outside his door. Sure, he had Lewis, and all of his buddies that always seemed ready to lend a hand in the midst of his cases. He wouldn't be completely alone. Still, Eames was different. She was constancy. She was a source of happiness. Losing Eames would be like losing a limb...

Shutting down his thoughts from going to other places best not explored, Bobby sat up. Thinking would only lead to trouble. With a groan, he got up from the couch and walked over to his beloved bookcases, a legacy of reading was one of the few good memories his mother had left him. Maybe it was inevitable, being the son of a former librarian. Still, the written word for Bobby allowed him a sense of peace. And he badly needed that right about now. As he searched, from Thoreau to Frost to even the occasional Grisham, his mind was restless. Dispassionately, he noted a small smattering of dust and told himself that he should clean up a bit, but he was just not up to it. As he reached to peruse another book, something fell out of it and fluttered to the floor at Bobby's feet. Book soon forgotten, Bobby bent down to investigate and found himself holding a dusty Polaroid, a picture of him with Eames. It didn't escape his notice of how much younger - more _alive_ \- he looked. Eames' hair was shorter then, but he could still see her own enthusiasm, her energy. Hindsight. How much things had changed... More memories of another case, of hotel magnate Ann Turner allegedly drowning in her own tub. (Bobby blessed his almost photographic memory and ease of remembering details.) The hostess there took pictures (one of those pictures which was a component of their case, concerning her husband and his male lover, a lover connected to the man's own daughter) and, in a moment of whimsy, Bobby aimed the camera at himself and Eames and snapped. He had long forgotten about it, but now, today of all days, it surfaced again. Wiping aside the layer of dust, Bobby stared at the faces, both familiar and yet somehow foreign, lost in memories.

So it was with some annoyance that he was snapped out of his reverie by a sharp knock at his door. He wasn't expecting anyone and was in no mood to entertain. Stalking to his door, the cop in him made himself look through the glass to see who was intruding, and stopped short, wondering if sheer force of will conjured his visitor up.

Opening his door, a shivering Alex stood on his doorstep.

"Eames," Bobby said, recalling his manners, waving an arm and motioning for her to enter. He saw her still pained expression and concern took root. "Are you okay?"

As their eyes met, Alex hesitated for just a moment before she steeled herself and walked past him, and Bobby caught another whiff of her shampoo, just as he did not an hour before in the office. As Bobby closed his door against the cold, Alex offered a brief retort, "Bobby, we need to talk."


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter 1 for summary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Well, here we are, the last chapter! I want to thank everyone for the support and the kind words. This was actually pretty fun, and I have the greatest respect and admiration for the other authors who do this on the regular. Thank you for letting me in on the fun. All editing mistakes are mine and mine alone since this story was posted without the benefit of a beta reader._

At her words, Alex saw apprehension creep back into Bobby's eyes and inwardly sighed. Twice in one day he looked like a sad, kicked puppy. And twice in one day she was the one to put that look there. In that moment, she cursed Moran, cursed the NYPD, and cursed herself for being so weak in the first place in giving the suits what they wanted so damned easily. On her way over, Alex replayed everything in her mind and came to the conclusion that she had betrayed Bobby, too, in a way. She gave in too readily. She should have encouraged him to fight.

Bobby saw a million emotions pass through Eames' face in a flash. "Eames, if this is about…earlier…and what happened, I'm okay." He tried to assure her, even if he wasn't sure how he felt. Eames didn't need to know that.

Alex took a step towards Bobby. "That makes one of us," she tried to joke. Before Bobby could respond, Alex noticed Bobby clutching something in his right hand. Grateful for the diversion, Alex nodded. "What's that?"

For a brief moment, Bobby looked confused, then recalled his unexpected find and that he still had it when he went to answer the door. A faint blush came over him as he looked at the picture then at Eames. "Just…something I found. Kind of ironic it popped up when it did." He held out the photo and Alex took it, curious. She made her way to the couch. And then, much like Bobby, seemed transfixed at the glimpse of the simpler, younger versions of themselves and how much they didn't know. As irrational as it was, she was sort of jealous of the photo version of them, not knowing just how much life and all that passed through – Declan and Jo Gage, Frank and Frances Goren, Captain Ross and his death, Tate's, Mark Ford Brady – would wear away at them, bringing them to their knees. But then again, they were still here. More bruised, a lot less idealistic, but still alive and still holding on to each other. To Alex, that was an accomplishment. "Wow," she finally said. "I'd completely forgotten about this." Like Bobby, she remembered the case and quipped, again trying to lighten the mood, "Maybe I should invest in some Botox myself now." She thought of recent mornings staring in the mirror, seeing some lines that crept up by surprise. "Just soap and water" seemed to only do so much, which seemed to give Father Time the edge…

"Do it and I'll shoot you," Bobby smiled. A small one, but still a smile, and Alex felt her chest warm. A small victory. "I like you just the way you are." Alex's eyes widened a bit at that and Bobby suddenly stared at the floor. Maybe not being chained to a desk was allowing the people to escape their cop shells. Maybe it was more about no longer giving a damn about playing things safe. Where did it get them?

"That's funny. I like you the way you are, too," Alex smiled, and held out the picture. But Bobby shook his head, suddenly a bit bashful from the mutual compliment. "No. I want you to have it, Eames." Bobby gave a brief nod. "You can put it on your desk at work, remind yourself of simpler days when the rest of the brass is all over you."

Bobby's words were like a sudden jolt of ice water. It was her turn to look down. Before Alex could speak, Bobby was next to her on the couch. "Eames, you're going to be a great captain. I meant everything I said. You're tough. You can handle anything!" Bobby bent his head, using the maneuver to meet her eyes as if Alex were a perp. Feeling cornered, feeling like a fraud, Alex moved away from Bobby and stood, trying to ignore the confusion and sudden hurt that flashed across Bobby's face. She began to pace, suddenly realizing she was holding that photo like a talisman. Loosening her grip, Alex faced Bobby. "I won't make a good captain." Bobby opened his mouth to argue and Alex held up her free hand to stop him, desperately needing to just say the words, to make them real. "Bobby…when you walked out of that office, I felt…God…I felt like such a fraud. And a traitor."

"Eames…"

Maybe it was the tension of the day, maybe it was another stall, but Bobby's utterance made Alex almost plead, "Damn it, Bobby. After everything we've gone through and all the shit we've had thrown at us…is it that hard to say my name? My _first_ name?" Disgusted that her eyes were beginning to feel hot yet again, Alex swiped at her eyes. Why was she making such an ass out of herself over a goddamn _name_? She knew Bobby cared. Yet here she was, unable to stop herself.

"I'm sorry, Eames…Alex," Bobby stammered, surprised. 

He began to say more, when Alex scoffed, " _No_! No," softer this time. " _I'm_ sorry, Bobby. God, what the fuck is wrong with me?!"

"It's been a long fucking day," Bobby offered.

She re-joined Bobby on the couch and they sat in silence, both appraising the other, trying to regain some equilibrium. Haltingly, Alex was the first to speak. "It's just…when you mentioned the picture and that desk, I…" Alex closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and steeled herself. She opened them then, seeing the question silently asked on Bobby's face, and she gathered up her courage. "I couldn't do it, Bobby. I _can't_ do it. I'm not taking that captain's exam. I…I quit."

The silence stretched and Alex peeked at Bobby through her lashes. The news seemed to surprise him, although Alex couldn't quite figure out why. Finally, Bobby seemed to snap out of it and shook his head, "No." He wasn't about to let her lose an opportunity – _another one_ – because of misplaced guilt. Or loyalty. "You can't throw this away."

And it suddenly crystallized, why Alex was afraid to tell Bobby. This. Her subconscious knew he'd fight her and she was so drained, so raw, her voice held an edge as she challenged, "I'm a big girl, Bobby. I didn't come to ask permission. I came to tell you as a friend."

"You've worked your ass off for this." Bobby countered, his voice rising in passion, in indignation. "I don't need you to sacrifice yourself for _me_. I'm not some _goddamned charity case_!" Bobby silently cursed the faint crack at the end and hardened his gaze. His voice lowering, he commanded, "Call the chief back. Tell him you've reconsidered."

Alex felt the emotional roller coaster hit another high and struggled to rein in her temper. "You're not my father! And you're not my goddamned husband or boyfriend. And I'm not some military peon." Alex stood. "I don't take orders from you, from _anyone_!" Alex had had enough of being ordered around, especially today. "I decided what's best for me, and I'd hoped you would have understood and supported me!"

In a flash, Bobby was off of the couch and crossed into his kitchen. He needed that drink, after all. Pulling out the Glenlivet, he fished a glass out of the drainer. His hand shook as he poured and stilled when he heard Eames from behind him. 

"Make that two." 

Turning, he saw her still stony expression and grumbled, "You don't even like Glenlivet."

"Right now, Bobby, I don't care what the hell it is as long as it's alcohol. This day gets shittier by the moment, so just pour me a damned glass!"

Deciding he had enough of fighting Eames, Bobby obliged. As he handed her the glass, he cautioned, "Sip it slowly."

Alex rolled her eyes.

"And I do support you."

Alex groaned. "Are we _still_ on this? Christ, Bobby, it's done!" She took a sip of the drink and fought against wrinkling her nose. Bobby was right. She didn't like Glenlivet, just as he wasn't fond of bourbon. Still, as it warmed her throat, then her belly, the liquid was soothing. Which was just as well since Bobby seemed bound and determined to piss her off and shred her last good nerve of the day.

"It's not done!" He said, after taking a healthy swig of his own drink. "This…This was inevitable." Bobby leaned against the counter. "I've been holding you back, and if you were honest with me, honest with yourself, you'd admit it's true." He looked at the remnants of the liquor in his glass almost as if answers could be found within its dark depths.

"That's such bullshit, Goren. You've never held me back. If that was ever the case, I would have never rescinded that damned letter. Did I not say years ago that I didn't take this job to be noticed?" Alex shot back. Bobby could almost appreciate the irony of having recalled that same declaration, that sort of psychic thread, but he was too focused on getting through to Eames. "I'm a damned good detective. _We_ are a fucking great team! And if those bastards can't appreciate that, I want no part of their political bullshit. I don't _want_ to turn into a suit."

Sighing, Bobby shook his head, an air of sadness clinging to the move. "Maybe you said that then…" His face grew melancholy. "But later on?" He drained his glass and poured another generous amount. Silently, he motioned to her glass.

Alex shook her head; her glass was still a quarter full. But alcohol wasn't what had her attention. She was wracking her brain, trying to figure out just what Bobby meant by "later on". With a sigh, she gave up the pretense of drinking and left her glass on the kitchen table and crossed her arms. Her face was half hidden by her hair as she tried to make sense of things. "I never changed my mind," Alex finally said, looking at Bobby. "When did I ever make you think that I wanted out?"

Pushing away from the counter, Bobby stepped in front of her. "You really don't know?"

"If I did, why the hell would I be asking you?"

Despite the topic, Alex's response made Bobby crack another small smile, but it quickly died. "Leslie LeZard," was all he said, but it was enough for Alex to remember.

_It's too late._

Of course Bobby would remember, Alex thought. Not only was his mind a virtual encyclopedia, not only did he have a sharp memory, but he always seemed to hold on to all of the negative things that surrounded him, all the while forgetting the very positive things he had done, all the good things and all of the people he was blind to that actually liked and respected him. In the not too distant past, he wore misery like a cloak, a cloak in the guise of tired eyes, bloat, and ambivalence about his appearance, a long, long way from those suits from his more eager days. The misery was his constant companion and, not for the first time, Alex wondered if Bobby would let himself sink so low to where he could never dig out. So she was grateful for Bobby's discovery of family, that he was still making an effort and fighting his way back.

Truth be told, to this day, Alex wasn't sure what made her blurt that out. Leslie LeZard, like Nelda Carson before her, and Nicole Wallace before her was another in the line of unstable and/or amoral women that Bobby had always seemed to find himself drawn to. Alex didn't miss the connection with Bobby's own mother. Maybe Bobby saw himself as some savior to these women, trying to understand them, to analyze them, to save them as he couldn't do for his own mom. 

_And more than that. It frustrated you_ , her subconscious seemed to say. _It hurt you to see Bobby falling into that same trap with the wackos, always attracted to the unpredictability, so you hurt back_. But Alex, even with the partner barrier no longer in the way, wasn't brave enough to really listen, choosing to remain ignorant.

"Bobby," she began. "I honestly have no idea why I said that. Maybe it was PMS. Maybe I'm just a bitch. But I'm saying this now: I. Don't. Regret. Quitting. If it's between a job and a know-it-all pain in the ass balls-to-the-wall friend," Alex stopped in front of Bobby and took his drink out of his hand and clasped it, "the friend wins every single time."

Bobby squeezed Alex's hand. His eyes were filled with feeling. He shook his head, knowing he was defeated. If Eames wanted to give this up, he couldn't stop her. And a part of him felt humbled that she would do it in solidarity with him. "I hope you know what you're doing." The ensuing silence stretched out as their gazes locked and Bobby whispered, "Thanks, Eames…Alex." He gave a shy smile and shrugged apologetically. "Gonna take me a while to get used to that." Bobby was quick to add, "And, for the record, you're not a bitch."

"Yeah, well…" Alex moved her hand away reluctantly and Bobby felt its loss, the same feeling he felt at the end of their hug. "You can still call me 'Eames'…and you're not a pain in the ass." At Bobby's doubtful look, she qualified with a laugh. "Well, not usually."

"Spoken like a real friend," Bobby smiled. "Even if I know better."

For two people with no job, Bobby and Alex suddenly felt lighter than they had in weeks. Bobby picked up Alex's unfinished drink and gave her a wordless "I told you so!" before he dumped the remainder. He then finished the last of his second drink and placed his glass in the sink, as well. Alex went back to the couch and sat with Bobby soon joining her. "So…" Alex sighed. "We have no jobs, no prospects of one, and we have bills to pay. Got any bright ideas?"

Bobby shrugged, leaning back to rest his head on the back of the couch as he inelegantly put his long legs on the coffee table, casually crossed at the ankles. "Always the lottery." A devilish gleam came over him as he turned and added, "Or you can always sell more matchsticks outside of City Hall." Alex grabbed a throw pillow and swatted Bobby with it. "Ow!" he grinned. "You're abusive when you're mad."

"Oh, yeah, that soft pillow will really leave a mark. Poor baby." Alex soon matched Bobby's pose, another set of legs on the coffee table. She turned her head and her eyes suddenly were alight, "Hey! That's right. You have a marketable skill…"

"Profiling?"

She shook her head. "Magic. You can play at children's birthday parties. Make some of those funky animal balloons," Alex gave a giggle, picturing Bobby being swarmed by a mob of screaming kids. Bobby scoffed. "The only trick I'd use there is to disappear. But…" he smirked, "…maybe you can make like…" he mimicked air quotes, "…The Lovely Miranda in the Miles Stone Case. Magicians need pretty women to distract the audience. Although that would be a bit too much for the poor kids." He found himself eying her. He didn't add that she would be as much of a distraction to him as she would the audience.

Alex was proud of herself for not looking away even as she felt her face warm by Bobby's offhand compliment. Yes, being liberated from the NYPD had its perks. "You couldn't afford my fee."

"Depends on what forms of payment you're discussing."

Alex blew out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She saw a bit of suave Bobby, missing for too long. Alex was pleased to see the mischievous part of him re-emerge, to come out to play, "My, you're full of surprises tonight, Goren. Or is it the scotch?"

"Two drinks, not drunk." Bobby shrugged. "And I only speak the truth. I'm big on that, you know."

A short nod. "I know." Before she could analyze it, Alex scooted closer to Bobby and put her head on his shoulder. Bobby caught another flowery whiff of shampoo, completely content for the first time in ages. "Maybe we can let the future take care of itself just for tonight," he whispered.

"Brilliant idea, as always." Alex said, lazily. After a pause, "It's the NYPD's loss," she told Bobby. She looked up to see him staring at her and grinned. "But I have a feeling they'll regret it sooner rather than later."

"You? Yes. Me…" Bobby shrugged. "Not seein' it."

"Let's make a bet then. Twenty bucks says the suits will be begging me _and_ you to come back in…" Alex thought, "…let's give it about a year."

Bobby shook his head, always amazed at Alex's faith in him, in his abilities. In _them_. "Probably not…the best idea to make a bet with no income, but okay. You're on." And their hands clasped in a firm handshake with matching smiles to boot.

And as Bobby Goren discovered a year later, Alex Eames' instincts were second to none.

END


End file.
